


A Ghost on Christmas Eve

by E_Salvatore



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Christmas fic in July!, F/M, Minor Jane Foster/Thor, Not very Christmas-y, Post-Avengers, Post-The Dark World, pre-ultron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 08:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4340666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_Salvatore/pseuds/E_Salvatore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one tells Sif about the famous Dickens tale the first time she celebrates Christmas on Midgard, but that doesn’t stop a certain ghost of her past from popping up anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Ghost on Christmas Eve

Half-drained mugs of hot cocoa litter the coffee table, along with three empty bags of marshmallows and another close to joining its hollow brethren. Sif watches as Jane gathers the mugs, building a precarious-looking stack for Thor to hold.

“Guys, seriously,” Tony says, already heading for the stairs. “It’s okay. Just leave everything there; Dum-E will get to it.”

“It’s fine,” Jane insists, waving him off. Tony shrugs and makes his way upstairs, Pepper following closely behind after saying her good-nights. Thor reaches out for Sif’s cup as Darcy adds hers to the growing pile before she skips away, shooting Jane a sickly sweet smile as the scientist glares at her friend.

Sif shakes her head with a smile. “I will put it away myself later; I think I shall stay a bit longer.” Thor shoots her a questioning look as Jane turns to them, the last of the mugs in her hands. She pushes the tower of porcelain against Thor’s chest, and the prince casts Sif a helpless look as he tries desperately to keep the mugs balanced.

“Okay, then.” Jane shrugs, completely oblivious to Thor’s struggle. “Do you want me to leave the marshmallows?”

“Yes, please,” Sif grins. “I find myself quite fond of those.”

Thor laughs, then comes to an abrupt stop when he realizes the rumbling in his chest causes the mugs to shake. “That makes two of us, Sif.”

“Right,” Jane nods. “You _did_ finish three bags of them in one evening. Maybe we should see about getting a few boxes for you guys to bring back to Asgard.” The ladies laugh when Thor’s eyes light up at the prospect. “Anyway, just turn off the Christmas lights when you’re leaving, Sif. Tony’s got thousands of them in that tree; I don’t want to imagine what would happen if they overheated.”

Sif nods. “Worry not,” She assures Jane. “Darcy instructed me on this earlier today, when we entered the room. She taught me how to operate the lights.”

“Alright, then,” Jane leads the way to the kitchen. “Good night, Sif!”

“Rest well, dear friend,” Thor says quietly, sparing his friend one last look before he trails after Jane. “And do not dwell too much on things of the past.”

A small, warm smile lights up Sif’s face. She does not relish the thought that Thor has seen through her mask, perhaps never fell for it in the first place. But it is nice to know that at least one person still cares, still knows her well enough to see that as much fun as Christmas is here in Midgard, part of her heart still aches for Yule and Frigga’s feast and another member of Asgard’s royal family, lost to them just as Frigga is.

“I will be alright,” She assures Thor, her sincere smile twisting into a grin. “After all, I have two of Midgard’s greatest inventions to keep me company.” Sif jokes, reaching for the bag of marshmallows.

Thor searches her eyes for a moment before he nods, seemingly satisfied with what he finds. It might take a while for Sif to be herself again but at least she is here, with his friends and their celebrations. Certainly she is in better spirits than she would have been in Asgard, where there are no Yule festivities whatsoever. There can be no celebration of any sort for the first three years without the Queen, as tradition dictates. He chases away a wisp of grief and sorrow, and claps a hand on Sif’s shoulder. They trade good-nights before Thor heads for the kitchen.

Sif sighs heavily as her eyes drift to the Christmas tree. She can hear Thor and Jane in the kitchen, can picture running water and a dishtowel slung over Thor’s shoulder. Once, the idea of Asgard’s crown prince washing dishes would have been an errant thought Volstagg would voice after too much ale. But now even Sif has grown used to the idea, for she has seen with her own eyes the routine Thor shares with his Midgardian. There is a precious sort of intimacy to it, the kind two people share when everything they do is an extension of their partnership. Sif misses that feeling.

She misses a lot of things, actually. Christmas lights dance and flicker as Sif stares blankly at them, pretending she is somewhere else, somewhere with grass as soft as the chair she sits on, a place where the running water her ears pick up on would come from a water feature, not a kitchen tap. Somewhere like Fensalir, where at night thousands of little pinpricks of light would illuminate the gardens. The lights were always Frigga’s favorite part of Fensalir at night, and Sif can still remember how brightly they burned - bright as these Christmas lights.

The illusion is shattered as a sharp click pierces the silence – Jane must have switched off the kitchen lights – and two pairs of footfalls sound against carpeted floors and hardwood stairs. Sif traces the muffled sounds all the way upstairs, until Thor and Jane walk down a hallway and out of her hearing range. She sighs and shakes out a handful of marshmallows, leaving them to drown in her chocolate drink as her eyes turn to the tree once more. It is easy this way; easier to lose herself in twinkling, familiar lights than to surrender herself to sleep and the unpredictable dreams her mind can conjure. Perhaps she can sit here all night, and feel more rested than she would after a night of tossing and turning in her bed, too cowardly to face her nightmares.

But Sif’s plan for a nice, dreamless night is shattered as soon as she feels the burn of another’s eyes upon her form, the warmth of someone pressed next to her on a sofa that suddenly feels too small for more than one person, despite the fact that it could hold two Aesir and two mortals quite comfortably just a few minutes prior.

“I can still remember,” Sif says out loud, though her voice is but a whisper. She is suddenly aware of her rigid posture, her back ramrod straight where before it had been slouched against the couch. “When they lit their trees with candles.”

Silence greets her like an old friend and stays much too long, long enough for Sif to grow restless. “I should wake up now,” She says, eyes fixed stubbornly upon the tree. Sif will not look, will not allow herself to hope – not until he gives her reason to. “Jane told me to turn off the lights before I go to sleep.”

Finally, he shifts beside her. She can feel his eyes upon her once more, though before they had flitted away as soon as Sif’s shoulders had stiffened. When Loki speaks, his voice is so painfully clear and sharp and _real_ that tears prick at Sif’s eyes.

“You think this is a dream, then?”

“What else could it be?” Sif asks, finally allowing herself a good look at Loki. A smile tugs at her lips, but it is heavy with her grief, her loss. It is a sad smile, and she sees it reflected in Loki’s eyes when she lifts one hand up to frame the left side of his face. “This is the same dream I have every night.”

Loki inhales – a shaky, painful sound. “Sif,” He sighs heavily, eyes closing of their own accord. It takes some time for him to open his eyes again but when he does, she can no longer see her pain reflected in them. Instead they shine with something akin to amusement, and Loki wears a smirk on his lips. It is a small thing, perhaps even a forced one. “I know Christmas is truly a spectacle, my lady, but to dream of a Midgardian festival night after night?”

“Ignorance suits you ill, Loki, especially when faked and even in dreams,” Sif says plainly, lowering her hand from Loki’s face to press it against his beating heart. “It feels so real,” She murmurs.

“Life often does, I’m afraid.” Loki smirks, lacing his fingers together with Sif’s so that they can both feel the slow thump of his heart.

Sif shakes her head. “Darcy warned me those drinks and the marshmallows were laden with sugar. Do you remember when we were children?” A wistful smile curls her lips. “We would sneak into the kitchens after dinner and swipe all the untouched desserts, and at night my dreams would be so real and vivid.”

“You would attribute this to an excess of _sugar_?” Loki regards her with equal parts of amusement, disbelief and rising frustration.

“What else could it be?” Sif asks again, pulling her hand away from Loki’s grip, away from his heart. “Are you here with me now, Loki? Loki of Asgard, Loki the fallen, Loki, redeemed by his sacrifice for his brother.” Sif shakes her head slowly and turns her eyes upon the Christmas tree and its dancing lights once more. It is so easy to get lost in the frantic blinking of a thousand bulbs, as easy as it would be to lose herself in this dream where Loki sits by her side. He sighs heavily and rakes a hand through his hair, and Sif can almost pretend it is a lazy afternoon five hundred years ago, when they used to sit side by side as Loki read a book or practiced some spell while Sif looked out of the window or cleaned her weapons. He would often sigh heavily when the tome in his hand ended up being less illuminating than he’d expected, and fingers would rise of their own accord to ruffle his hair when a spell proved elusive.

“Wake up, Sif,” Loki whispers into her ear after a long moment of silence. Sif shudders at the warmth of his breath against her skin and closes her eyes to blink back tears. Loki is nothing but a dream, just as she suspected, and now it is time for her to wake.

“Why?” She demands quietly, the word a pained whisper weighed down by her reluctance to leave her ghost and return to the emptiness of her waking hours.

Loki waits for Sif to open her eyes. “If you truly believe this is a dream,” He says, and there’s a hint of a challenge in his voice. “Then try to wake up.”

Sif frowns; this is not how the dream is supposed to go. “Alright,” She rises to Loki’s challenge, earning herself a smirk. “I will.” Without so much as a _good-bye_ , Sif shuts her eyes and prepares for her return to the waking world. She blinks.

“Good morning.”

There are two words that should never be spoken when it is still dark out, so early that even the sun refuses to rise. Those two words are _good morning_ , and Sif’s handmaiden insists on greeting her in such a manner even when she wakes Sif well before dawn. She allows her heavy eyelids to slide down once more and out of habit, groans in protest. “It is not even light yet-”

Her handmaiden has the highest, chirpiest voice in all of Asgard’s court. Sif knows it well, almost as well as the voice that greets her now.

“We should turn off the lights and go to sleep now, I suppose.” Loki suggests, a smug little grin playing on his lips as Sif stares at him, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise.

This is not a dream.

As Sif waits for her mind to supply her with words, Loki goes ahead and turns the lights off with a snap of his fingers. The sharp _click_ breaks through the heavy fog of surprise that cocoons Sif and prompts her to speak.

“Did you break them?” Loki is here and Loki is real and Loki is _alive_ , and the only thing Sif can do is ask him about the Christmas lights.

For the first time this evening, Loki is truly taken aback. “Pardon?” He asks somewhat hesitantly, looking at Sif with equal parts of bewilderment and concern painted on his face.

“The lights,” Sif snaps impatiently. “Did you destroy them? That was unnecessary; I could have simply turned them off using that button-”

“They’re perfectly fine, Sif,” Loki assures her, his voice laced with amusement. “On,” He motions at the lights, waving the bulbs to life. “Off. On, off, on-”

Light footfalls skip down the grand staircase.

“Off!” Sif hisses.

Loki smirks. “Why use magic, when you could simply use that button there and-” Sif glares at him with all the heat of Muspelheim’s burning suns as she rushes to turn the lights off as those in the kitchen come to life.

“Bad dreams, Agent Romanoff?” JARVIS asks gently, his discreet tone echoing throughout the first floor.

“Do you even have to ask?” Natasha retorts in a quieter voice, her words known to Loki and Sif only due to their sharp senses.

“I was told it is the polite thing to do,” JARVIS says without missing a beat. “Would you like some tea?”

Natasha sighs. “Thanks, JARVIS, but I think I’ll do it the old-fashioned way. If I can find a kettle,” She mutters, raiding the kitchen cabinets.

“Well, well,” Loki grins. “Even the little spider has night terrors.”

Sif turns the fire of Muspelheim upon him once more. “You will not speak of my friend in that manner,” She hisses. “Come,” Sif drags him upstairs while Natasha is busy in the kitchen, her mug of hot chocolate abandoned, and quickly leads him to her room before Loki gets it into his head to alert the others to his presence. She pushes him past the threshold and slowly closes the door, taking extra care to lock it.

“You have returned from _the dead_ ,” Sif whispers heatedly as soon as the door is closed, turning around to face Loki as he perches on the edge of her bed.

“Well,” Loki has the gall to _smile_ at her, his eyes glinting in the dark. “That isn’t quite true. I was never dead in the first place, so-”

“We burned a coffin in your name,” Sif cuts him off. “We mourned you for weeks and we floated great vessels down the eternal sea, bearing treasures for your use in the afterlife. So as far as I am concerned, Loki, _you were dead_.” She is breathing hard, her heart pounding against her chest in rage… or… Sif refuses to name anything else she might be feeling. “You were _dead_ ,” She says again, and hates herself for the way she chokes on the last word. “And now you are not.”

“Really,” Loki says after a pause, his voice carefully flippant. “I thought you’d be happier about this.”

Sif inhales, filling her lungs with enough air for a second rant. “You-”

Loki shoots to his feet, holding a hand up to ward off Sif’s anger. “Wait,” He says, shoulders tense. Someone has tripped one of the wards he put up in Odin’s wing; possibly a member of his guard bearing urgent news.

“Forgive me, Sif,” Loki’s voice is heavy with regret. It takes Sif by surprise, and her silence is enough for him to close the distance between them. “I must leave now.”

“No!” Sif protests, her voice hoarse as she struggles to hide the panic rising in her chest. “You cannot leave now.” She searches Loki’s eyes, and sees that she has no chance of keeping him. “Where will I find you?” Sif asks instead, trying to make the best of things.

There is precious little time left for Loki to rush back and don his disguise, but Sif’s words manage to keep him a little while longer. “Find me?” He echoes. “So that you can drag me home and throw me back into my cell?” Loki hisses, the first sign of a temper he has tried to hide this evening.

“Find you,” Sif says evenly. “And drag you across the Realms, from Svartalfheim’s jagged and harsh terrain to Asgard’s cold, golden halls, so that you may face justice, serve your time and _redeem yourself_.”

Loki scoffs. “I do not see a point to all this, Sif.”

Exasperated, Sif reaches out and cups the left half of Loki’s face in one hand, forcing him to look her in the eye. “Redeem yourself, so that one day you may walk by my side for all of Asgard to see, and carry no trail of whispered threats and hissed insults.”

Another ward is tripped, and Loki starts to fade away, willing himself to be transported. “By your side?” He asks Sif quietly, unable to conceal the slightest note of hope in his voice.

“One day,” Sif nods, a promise. “So where will you be, Loki?”

He smiles, and a ghostly pale finger reaches up to brush the medallion that hangs from Sif’s neck. It bears the All-Father’s sigil, and Sif has worn it ever since she was elected leader of the Einherjar just one moon ago. It is a mark of her loyalty, first and foremost, to her king.

Loki leans in so close that his lips brush against her ear, so close that she can feel his words as he whispers into her hair a secret to be kept between the two of them and hidden from the worlds. “Closer than you would think, dear Sif.”

When Sif opens eyes she had unknowingly and reflexively closed, it is impossible to tell if Loki had ever been there in the first place. Only the faintest of lingering traces – a warm breath in the shell of her ear, an odd sensation in her hands, a painful _squeeze_ of her heart – convince her this was no hallucination.

A muffled knock on her door makes quick work of the dreamlike haze that envelopes her reality. “Sif?” Natasha’s voice rings out. “Sif, is everything alright? I thought I heard someone in there.”

“Yes,” Sif calls back, a touch too loud and frantic. She quickly undoes the lock to her room and invites Natasha in. “Yes, everything is alright.”

Natasha peers at her through the darkness, prompting Sif to reach for the switch that powers the lights in this room. The effect is instantaneous; a dim, warm glow illuminates even the darkest corners of her temporary quarters. As soft and gentle as the light is, Sif feels it burns bright as any desert sun when it chases away the shadows to reveal nothing but an empty room.

“I thought I heard you talking to someone,” Natasha explains, offering Sif an apologetic smile.

Sif puts on a smile of her own, tainted by a touch of melancholy as the burn of Loki’s breath against her ear fades away. “Just a ghost,” She offers vaguely, surprised when a hint of empathy shines in Natasha’s eyes.

“A lot of that going around tonight,” The Widow sighs, her voice suddenly tired as the burden of a thousand nightmares settles firmly upon her shoulders. “I’m sorry I bothered you,” Natasha smiles tightly, her mask in place once more. “Good night, Sif. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Sif echoes as Natasha slips out of her room and closes the door behind her. She counts twenty-seven steps before the sound of a doorknob being turned reaches her ears, and only turns her back to her once-again locked door when she hears Natasha securing the entrance to her own room.

As her mind sifts through the past hour, Sif feels suddenly and impossibly drained. She rests her weight against her door, trusting the structure to hold her upright for a brief moment. With her back to the door, Sif can see every nook and cranny, every corner free of shadows and every bit of the air clear of magic. But when she brings a hand up to brush the cold surface of her medallion, Sif imagines she can feel a spark of lingering magic.

“Just a ghost,” She murmurs once more to her empty room.

**Author's Note:**

> You get a Christmas fic in July and you get a Christmas fic in July and everyone gets a Christmas fic in July because I’m an A+ master when it comes to procrastinating! I started working on this in December so yes, I’ve earned that A+. I hope you guys sort of enjoyed this rambling piece of… I don’t even know what to call this. But I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. Reviews would be really, really nice, especially since I didn’t get any feedback at all on my last two Marvel one-shots. (But I keep coming back because I just can’t stay away from these super-powered dorks.)


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